Reaching Summer Minds…

“It started with workers’ evening classes outside the city gates. Her kind blue eyes would sparkle as she told me in a rote, sing-song voice of the importance of awakening the workers’ class consciousness. Happy for her and realized what a joy it must be to discover some all-consuming goal”. …by Larissa

To look for and destroy others due to divergences in shape, in scope, in tint, in notions or faith is intention with no ‘assonance or intelligence’. The colored fibers of an arras must be many and without reason, for life has no meaning if lacking variety and noise and without sing choirs and time.

Recall younger days when single word shapes, we discussed with countless deliberation; is good in young minds, and it is also good to be an idealist and always better to implement, then to watch struggles decrease and die. Intent is formal rhythm as informal ventures and voices we share often, by a multitude of straight forward mind-speak. Shriek and speak, peak, and realize the up-down issues of a United People or a Distant Society, and just listen to murmured fabrications in the dark.

Is Dancing-in-the-dark prudent practice, or is unawareness as idyllic as lingering to trace flowers with eyes-to-face-to-ground and then to drift away into silence? Principles determine how to restrain shares of humanity’s essentials, wants, hopes, and fears. While the Constitution of America is noble, it is an impractical paradigm. Its structures are impossible to apply since values adjust swiftly. Standards amend and are either normally just or abnormally unjust. We are conscious of the ‘Military Industrial Complex’. Will the current actions of 2020, imply the termination of any hopes to continue our righteous and upright and ethical Freedoms? Freedom’s endurance or America’s Dreams-of-Direction is its independent spirit. Justice be a damnable notion to quantify, to find and to practice properly. This Republic may not be clever enough to follow this fragile and undoubtedly corruptible Representative Democracy.

Touch me with sing-song poems. Forget the world and touch me with voice. We two—too need those requiring words of hope. And! Verses of love’s together-forever. Whilst! Dark dancing with rhythm in our minds and drumbeats in our hearts…

A lighthouse, countless lifetimes gone, spark as great beams sweep across sight line discharge and disappear only to eternally reappear. Pulsars pulse power ‘cross a sparkling firmament. A blood moon appears, and ears perk for Wolf’s lunar call. Cold and bright stars spot night beyond rooftops and always brighter as moonlight slips closer to the earth. Early morning and snow curves to white silver and interwoven shadows of leafless limbs and long trunks stand between the moon and ground touch. Black way now white; a gentle declination from community’s frontage and down another moderate rise.

Being afraid to exist is the notion of moving through a barely recollected time of future’s fate and prior to another trip-in-time. Government is controlling an alienated society and the anterior faith in promises and desires. The elected ones cannot move toward either truth or nonfiction due to the simple reasons that lying is the easiest form of communication. And! None seem to care.

Life flows thru vein-to-brain then ink flows and magic often flat is smooth and…And! Mind speaks simplicity with force combined to shout future verse with yesterday’s sweet silence. To listen! To pronounce and become choir sing-song’s harmonious visions so softly. Is truth found here? Is in communities ‘cross land and seaside channels a fact that each community found discovers itself on the verge of losing every part and every parcel of any fortune or any chance of regaining any semblance of harmony, love and joy?

We are effective at destroying ‘the enemy’; so proficient, that we are unable to identify an adversary from a ‘maybe or almost’ the same blood-red animation we want or desire to embrace—not race but begin and end with a sometimes or almost never-ever or requiring an absolute maybe? Global reasons to exist will conclude as divisions increase hate and ignorance and vacuous nationalism and abject failure of new realities, as greed continues its evil. Constant learning is another form of survival’s attempts to animate. We supply the poise required to afford physical sustenance, covering and haven. What is the sacrifice for this equilibrium? Why? We accept these ‘all the time’ situations as unalterable and unavoidable and ‘so it must be true’, this way of life’s life.

‘Tulips’

“The tulips are too excitable; it is winter here.

Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.

I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly

As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.

I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.

I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses

And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. 

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff

Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.

Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.

The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,

They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,

Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,

So, it is impossible to tell how many there are. 

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water

Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.

They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.

Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage——

My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,

My husband and child smiling out of the family photo.

Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat

Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.

Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley

I watched my tea-set, my bureaus of linen, my books

Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.

I am a nun now; I have never been so pure. 

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted

To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.

How free it is, you have no idea how free——

The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,

And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.

It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them

Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.  

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.

Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe

Lightly, through their white swaddling, like an awful baby.

Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.

They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,

Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,

A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.

The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me

Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,

And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow

Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,

And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.

The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. 

Before they came the air was calm enough,

Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.

Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.

Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river

Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.

They concentrate my attention, that was happy

Playing and resting without committing itself. 

 The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.

The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals.

They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes

Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,

And comes from a country far away as health”. — ‘Tulips’ by Sylvia Plath

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Spellbound’Lacuna Coil

 

‘Cruel Summer’ – Ace Of Base

Miss Lizbeth…


“Life is a Dream—Realize It” by Mother Teresa

Abstracts we are and Abstracts we are not. Even when we are rich or poor, sick or well, big or small; and beings of, magic and language and math and music and poetry and art and motions-in-time and rhythm or rhyme or; kings and queens, or servants or slaves—we; with fingers crossed, are all abstractions at the gates of New Worlds just waiting to be discovered.

Are we really ‘things’ removed from nature? By this removal do we become, aggravating abstracts of potential products of loss and of gain? However; we are, information that is and maybe changed thru whimsy and by chance. So! Line them up and roll those dice again.

Morning is sweet and time is early. Lizbeth and I move along these sidewalks toward trees placed; so long ago and, spaced above lawns now green and wonderfully mowed…Lizbeth is a fine friend; complete with four feet, with beautiful fur and great purpose. Stop and listen; short paces, move again then stop and listen and watch many motions and notions of early morning birds and small beasts with four legs and fur and purpose. “Tis good this time—“Tis good this twine-rewind.

“May you hear every song in the forest…And! If ever you lose your own way…Hear my voice like a breeze whisper soft through the leaves, may you stay in the arms of the Angels… from Lullaby for a Soldier by Dillion O’Brian…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Time of the Season’ by Rod Argent/performed by Haley Reinhart

Swinging Toward Blue Sky…

“And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence”…By Paul Simon

Riches flow about the words of sound—tongues known and tasted—treasured—accepted and often heard in other spaces-places seen—felled or yelled against gloom—gathers where sunlight is wishing—spaces scattered among stars of reaches—stretches across skies of night and spaces between word sound—and light. Sand and leaves—together speak—rustle—whisper—murmur and moan of death—not found—of life—not known. And! Still—notions of her away sounds and her silence. Feathers and Leaves and Sand and Ashes and Seas—quiet see—and thunder— ‘cross sky and wave splash onto shoreline—and skylines—and time. The share of poet-touch and story-spin—of exile’s faith—of disaster’s private pain—as speech native—fails—creative spirit—often maims—creature-speak and often confuses the never-place-of-everywhere.

On swings—would push you again—higher than sky and into the blue of day…Before the walls about and around us reach sky high and we grow layers wide as our legs lengthen and our tears change size and know other reasons to fall from inside lid closed—to ground. Would hear our laughter and see our happy smiles without notions of future days—again reminding us to quickly run fields of spring grass and clown-speak and dreams of mint candy and ice cones of summer’s sweetness.

The People should never be afraid of their government…Their government should always be afraid of The People …Bombs to feed our Children—WTF? ‘Swords to Plowshares’—How Simple and How Sweet…Worlds without Rape and Murder—Absolutely! And!’ Sleeping in Safe Arms’ Wonderfully—Wonderful…donchathink?

‘History’s Wig-Waggle’

“June 1950! B29 bombers bombed North Korean targets. These bombers left Andersen Air Force Base in Guam—just days after Kim’s grandfather dispatched his armies into South Korea. North Korea was devastated by the US Air Force campaign. The head of the Strategic Air Command (SAC), General Curtis LeMay, claimed that; “the B29s’ bombs killed (20 percent) of the North Korea’s non-combatant population and left not a single village unscathed. On August 29th, 1952 the North’s capital Pyongyang endured over (1,400) sorties in one night alone.”

Sea winds against faces as we wrap arms and sail our little ship ‘cross Calimesa Bay. We—the you of me and the ‘us’ of them—caress life of never-ending times—imagined images of worlds before and behind us as together we gather the stones and posies and roses and rising winds and soft raindrops. ‘Tis beauty of life—lifetimes ago and here and near and dear and forgotten to be remembered on another world—or planet—or place—or pace’s running away or traveling again to backward spaces and smiles.

The Walker—a silhouette tuck—tucked low—beneath Grand Moon rising—careful-to-carve—a cross-dark-sky—too close to be real—and—too real to be—proximity’s cost—close—to-shapes-to-shift-shapes—and closer—to buildings tossed— ‘cross landfall—to sea-line-to-skyline. Tide shifts—in evening time—and—changes along season’s—mix-or-match—same as sunrises—as sunsets—and—shadows do play—twin moon seasons—with splashes—textured cloud colors—and—star twinkles—too-far-to-see—or—too close to be—and—not to catch eye—noticed-in- brain—with spirit touch—time same.

The Created-creations—lost an ‘Eden’ place—when the ‘She’ and ‘He’ of the ‘It’—either happens—by an accidental-accident—or fall from—or is pushed out of—the wonder of— ‘Immaculate Contraptions’—and through construction—‘divinely discovers’ the—‘other than’ robotic being—and joins the ‘Spirits of Twirl’—while discovering choice is better—than and more difficult than—the straight-in-line-crawl—toward golden lights—cave dwellings and scrawling—dots or dashes against walls—without reasons or rhymes or the ‘Rhythm of Love.’

The commune of Paimpont—is near the city of Rennes…Is Paimpont Forest—Brocéliande? Magical—mysteries of planet space—a place—where the Lady of the Lake—Merlin’s capture—a tree where imprisoned—he may still remain? Or! Mystery rich—Merlin’s tomb—the Val sans Retour—enchanted land—where ‘Morgan le Fay’ casts spells—to—imprison—her loves? And! Remember—that once Rennes—was Condate—tiny village—of wonder spells—twisted whirls of twirling—tells—story rich—and tame.

The Walker—glides ‘cross jumble-tumbles—stone dust purple—made by rain—visible—as digs—once moved dirt—above rock face—and dragged—these weighted ones—from place-to- special-place—buildings built—or—structures moved—restructured—replaced or destroyed. Needed things—as times required—when places—were homes—and buildings ruled—seaside—land-side…And! Little death—be only—notions of—Lizard Kingdoms—where the motions—of ‘we-be-pills’—available—or needed—from car trunk glory to—never matters—what gates—we fall through—matters not—what star burns us…Matters—that gates open—matters—that stars are hot.

We do not summon gentle love…It whispers to our spirits—and touches us beyond the flesh of resistance and routes of layers and lives inside walls too high to be climbed or under or around or about the shouts of daily doubts and flight. Love heart touches and reaches—into body frail and those impossible attempts to hide among—thrones of thorns and weary costs—already paid and already spent. Listen—just listen. And! Love reminds us of the equality of equals—woman and man and the spirits of all trapped and—living sentient—sentences of life inside body—minding body.

Listen and hear—the many-edged sounds of laughter and the salted taste of tears. And! Once books printed—did exist and often read—about the firelight of thousand Candles Street and in scattered places beneath orange colored sky towers—dirt streets along—Bridge Ridge and Liberty Park…The Martian outreach—was a hard travel for Noah and his family…They had reached out to him—the Builders of Star Ships—the ready ships of Earth Spins and moonlighted paths along new waterways—of places to begin—other fleshy forms—a place without the Red worlds. These were the Making Forms—the places of rocks’ motions and creature speaks and the songs of the Glass-Beaker Folk…

We begin before the stars—And together we melt into the mist…Fire and shadows ‘cross a sky—Color moon of blood and gold—Simple songs and thudding drum—Stars light up another home—We move by wind across this place—In sunlight waves and dancing twists—Of silver rain and stretching space—Ship’s gentle streaks in skies of grace—With muted voice and silent rooms of—Blood touched throat and emptied tombs—Bridge walked toward and skylight’s scream—By taking flight and falling dream—Warming suns of days ago—With salted mist and taste of tongue—Lights of passion—times of rain—Wolf cries shout of sands and home—Across this universal stretch—Window shine in candle’s light—And let us touch another peace—Of safety sleep and lover’s reach.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Sound of Silence’…Performed by Disturbed

 

Fluid As Liquid Pours…

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“I thought then I should save one small warm true thing from the flood.”
—Zbigniew Herbert, “Elegy for the Departure of Pen Ink and Lamp”

Our lives are fluid—liquid pour—consume—replace—replenish— and then—recall. Surprise! How we shift—habits and ways—allowing for empty space—of balance—restore. Darkness seeps—slowly into day—end bright…Night fills lighted places and turn-on bulbs—share grays—shades many—always simulate and always fail—to cheer the sun…And! Rain does pour from sky—onto roof—through spirals both—short or long—gutters or just eaves—from leaves’ soak—or arcs—golden tricks of night light—inside—as outside water—splashes ground—collects—sidewalk—flooded cracks—into pools of wet—and of—mud carvings—and pavement soaks.

Still here—beneath these heavens—our sea—swirl-twirls and we hear—whale sing-song our mother— into-necessary-sleep. Whale—sing-songs—the heating of blood-self—until warming is—non-fear. She rises from—emerald seas and from—black sands—where tide pulls current— and—lines-of-moon-light are perfect—and—disappear into the—dustless night. Now! Touch— the Dancing One—the Witch of life—and taste—her creations…Goddesses do create—Heavens-Earths and Moons-Suns—while passing—Spirits-to-flesh—and back again…Spirits do form—and substance—is free… Correct notes!—Pipers of those—silver flutes—held ‘gainst heart ‘beeps’ strong—as fair—seafarers often pass—others-into-light—as others ‘cross— star-streams-to-suns—above sea and beyond sky…

‘These are summer’s small ones. Little boys—a lake—a sun—a length of blond hair—red hair— freckles and frogs. Brothers—little and younger—play in tiny waves-too small-to thunder toward sandy shore and pine trees. And wind—wanders through those pines—growing in rows above—rocky places where shadows of— fern and grasses cling and mingle with—swimming life—aquatic things—rainbow-colored trout and fish brothers—hoping to catch…These rafting days—orange and yellow circles—filled with air and noise across a quiet bay. These are singing days! Shouts and shrieks and whistles—‘cross the harbor call—where wood-hulled ships rest—bell claps—rocking waves and setting sails. Snake twins—those boys—brothers of blood and the eternal bonds—of water and of mud. Water children—held above the line—knowledge buoyant—unafraid and free—defeating for the playtime—gravity and restrictions of—a drier Earth. Sunshine—West-turns and slips beneath the sky. Nymphs have forgotten—paradise found—summer’s little ones. So small! Beneath the scheme—of earth and large beneath the stars. So bright! Those stars! Filling lake—sparkles and silence—gems dancing and laughing diamonds…Tiny—brothers’ sleep fast and safe—within their dreams. And! A father listens—to the brief and passing sounds—of laughter.’

Frantic! This talk—‘America’ speaks—and ‘Failure’ reeks—long lengths-of-rhythm ‘Lies’ as ‘Freedom’ dies or never—was—does-as-trouble—double-entertains—prior—to longer-nights-shortest-lights—still counting times—as errors made and ever-never correct—when realization—is always—too late. Never! Allow Government to destroy—the people’s achievements—their history—their language—their future dreams. Happens! And we—become ‘winds-of-ash’ then gone—We! Then—never exist. For Genocide—-does destroy flesh—and—more than bone. Genocide destroys Blood-Rivers-of-Life.

‘You and I—and life about—as we shout ‘Love’ skyward—nothing stops our—Dance—You and I— Together! We know—nothing exists—without Love’s Power—Tower—Flower and Life… Life ignited—united—delighted—excited…We touch—hand-to-heart-to-spirit—and—let Eternal Dance begin…’

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Send Me an Angel’…by Klaus Meine and Rudolf Schenker—(Scorpions)

 

‘National Anthem’…by Lana Del Rey

Paper Write and Rights …

M_154All Paper Rights are worthless—the writing paper more precious—if no mechanical—mechanisms are already in place to hold all Rulers accountable—to those Paper Write—Rights. Yul Brynner once—with hand flourish—committed—RamesesII-Speak—and said; “So let it be written—So let it be done.” From Pharaohs—to King/Queen Speak to the Magna Carta—to the—American ‘Constitution’ of Speak—and still no realized—Speak of—‘Freedom and Liberty’—until every living thing—is ‘free-to-live’—and to synchronize-in-equivalence with Earth-spin and with-each-other.

Still! Burdened Beasts—and too many-for-Less and More—for just a wig-waggled few and ‘the beat goes on’—donchathink? The United States of America began in a whimper of ‘freedom for those same few’ and through the blood of—many—lesser folks—still continue today—failure for the multitudes and stolen—by anyone—claiming a ‘Runaway—Machined-War-Mechanism’—is prosperity and Death is Freedom’s Sacrifice. American Genocide began when first—Native Americans dared believe and were—slaughtered for —Well! ‘Long Live-that-Crazy and All—Mixed-Up—Dream Me Up—a Paradise or Two.’

Today! Just like another yesterday—Tomorrow just like another Today—doesn’t fade away—just pray—and pick a stone or two and wait long enough—another life to slew—and maintain few—in silver castles just—miles above Planet—spin—still not reached by ground-bound—Us—dying and living without rhythm or rhyme…Monuments carved in blood—masses starving. Temples mounted and delivered by—century’s blood—stained pasts and shattered futures. Mud huts fall when built beside gated compounds—until blood covered gates—rust away and grass fills cracked walls where palaces once defined—Rulers’ failure to synchronize-in-equivalence with Earth-spin and with hungry people.

World-Speak is never Nation-Speak—unless forced by strength—against—weak and imbalanced places—ruined or lost and found and lost again…Wait! Imbalance a country—or a region—and will—the civilization of many—be destroyed—by the Destroyers or by the Imbalance of the Imbalanced? Strategic Genocide—absolutely. Toss in a dash of—Religious intolerance and bang-bang-bang—ready-made—imbalance with large doses of death—destruction and War! The middle of an Eastern portion of a world spinning across a universe of space and time of landfall and splendor—has a determination—created by—a Western ideology so foreign and devoid of principle that Sociocide is a study in collateral damage and a ‘resourceful’ necessity. Egypt—Palestine—Lebanon—Syria—Iraq—Iran and…Presently—these wars are battles of imbalance created by this Terror from the West. Someday soon—this will pass…Life is sacred and family is love!

What of the People—the many—the injured—the women—the children—the homeless? Refugees of—Strategic Genocide…Meetings—and Planning—and—Planning—and Meetings. Still! The refugees of Strategic Genocide die—must be planned—must be decisive death—by many more—meetings…Does anyone require God or Allah or Buddha? No! Only—We are required to Live…Be damned—the Rulers-of-Anywhere-of-Anyplace and-of-Anytime…Not really needed—for our blood to flow inside—where blood belongs—and to synchronize-in-equivalence with Earth-spin and with-each-other. We are few and so many—Lost-Broken-and-Forgotten…War is now! War is yesterday! War is tomorrow! Today—we free-fall toward acceleration and the annihilation of Everyday. Presently—In another place—the Witches of Creations Cry!

And! Beautiful you are…

He was the wizard of a thousand kings
And I chanced to meet him one night wandering
He told me tales and he drank my wine
Me and my magic man kind of feeling fine

He had a cloak of gold
And eyes of fire
And as he spoke I felt a deep desire
To free the world of its fear and pain
And help the people to feel free again

Why don’t we listen to the voices in our hearts
‘Cause then I know we’d find we’re not so far apart
Everybody’s got to be happy
Everyone should sing
For we know the joy of life
The peace that love can bring

So spoke the wizard in his mountain home
The vision of his wisdom means we’ll never be alone
And I will dream of my magic night
And the million silver stars that guide me with their light…The Wizard’ by Uriah Heep

Wing Sounds And Silence…

Drop“For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin….
I am the barren one, and many are her sons….
I am the silence that is incomprehensible….
I am the utterance of my name.”

‘The Mother of Creation’…A voice of Feminine Divine Power

Spirit is in this world…It doesn’t belong to it. It does not belong to the illusory world of matter and of time. Spirit maybe the spark of antimatter firing sparkles… Without a spark of antimatter called ‘Spirit’ nothing called a— human being could have evolved into what ‘It’ is today? This special spark is uncreated—divine and may begin through the touch—of an ‘Unknowable Kingdom’—Muse—Enlightenment—Genius—Anger—Thrill—Joy–Wonder—Magic and….Creative energies maybe Creative Spirits…With the beginning of Christianity—the existence and essence of—Man—were three entities—Body and Soul and Spirit…Both—Saint Paul and Saint Augustine believed this to be Truth…However—future Councils and through the decisions of Pope(s) and the Roman Catholic Church—what remains for us (we the masses) —are the Body and the Soul and other Ghosts—Outsiders…What happened to Spirit? Has Spirit conveniently—disappeared?

Stand beneath moon light —and above-the-form of Draped Ones and cast motions—gentle designs across this easy night. Be tall—be short—be large—be small and gather to hear the—soft waves scatter ‘cross shore and land beneath feet—bare or fur-covered—both—warmed in the air of night and safe inside the darkness of this easy night. Watch the shadows of bridge span and steel as wooden shapes pass underneath the towers of man—created when young species roamed earth-bound and the constructions of shapes and water passages filled the world—before the tearing days and summer’s song. A night bird cries and another winged one settles protected within thick tree grasses inside the shadows of the moon.

Large ones—rise to surface and water gently swirls behind them. They are slow and sweet and strong inside a current they know—as their reasons and their purposes inside the strength of their being—strong and imagined and real. The River Manatee sleeps and its current survives. Life is—without color and as important as survival’s Gravity…Love is—without gender and—must be universally shared by everyone alive…And! The Witch Smiles…

Listen! Our streets vibrate with good life—sweet blood and the strength of poverty covering America…’Feed my People’—strong words—weak wills to solve and still solutions are apparent and ready to use for many willing to share and to simply end greed. And! Please remember that a Police State is allowed when governments—desire only—to protect and maintain—Societies’ Hierarchy—and be damn the People…The wealthy have forgotten with whom they once danced—and from where their worth began—developed and multiplied…Why are the many sounds of poverty silent—when greed deafens—growls of hunger and the pleas of need—in the Mystic— ‘Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave?’ Protest and Speech Politic—twirls now toward the swirls of grenades that flash and crying sprays and Robocop of ‘all-dressed up’—and still—the You and I of—Us against each-other…We are a place where laws were enforced by us without ‘dress-up’ and the notions of ‘bodily harm’ or the invasions of street-to-street—places with threats of harm by ‘other eyes’  conditioned to see our neighborhoods and us (‘We the People’) as their Enemy…People-Person-You and I—We still are…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘From the Beginning’…by Emerson, Lake and Palmer

From The Beginning

Mind Fractures and Seems…

Che Guevara“Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt I love.”- William Shakespeare

Close eyes and drums again—gain—gain…’Tis battle beg—again—gain—gain…And! All along the wayward—way—the drum a—tap—rap—tap—tap again—gain—gain…Field reach-to-reach or touch-touch-touch—rush-rush-run again—gain—gain—to rush away—to fall again—get up—to die again—gain—gain—and Gain..! See this thing before—since the beginning of things—of days or nights or evenings or mornings, or when things were and things differently created—did not irritate the matter of creations—creators. Know this place like—farm—river when fish were fish and would swim right by the bait.’ This is the road. A hoppity-skippity-small little road not needing a reason—a rhyme or paved covers over sidewalk—or things—rhyming with nothing by a word that names the place where sidewalk ends—and then starts again.

Between stochastic randomness and rigid regularity—Chaos—systems dynamic—dynamo-hum—where’s that dynamo coming from’ (Frank Zappa) —And! Suddenly the regularity of phenomena—no longer measured rigidly—now burst into the probability of theory—though dynamically and universally common—plain-speak and stench—drenched in fractal messages. ‘Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away. ’Input-Output’ and many layers hide—within? To count those hidden layers do—counters—count the ‘Input’—one or count the Output two or just ‘1’ and ‘0’ then reverse the flow—skip entry once—to find point then—continue while—depending upon the flow—within? Matters not the incline of the incline—matters—those inclined to forward—reach and backward—catch?

“We hold that the policy known as imperialism is hostile to liberty and tends toward militarism, an evil from which it has been our glory to be free. We regret that it has become necessary in the land of Washington and Lincoln to reaffirm that all men, of whatever race or color, are entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We maintain that governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed. We insist that the subjugation of any people is “criminal aggression” and open disloyalty to the distinctive principles of our Government…”

“We must bear in mind that imperialism is a world system, the last stage of capitalism — and it must be defeated in a world confrontation. The strategic end of this struggle should be the destruction of imperialism. Our share, the responsibility of the exploited and underdeveloped of the world, is to eliminate the foundations of imperialism: our oppressed nations, from where they extract capitals, raw materials, technicians, and cheap labor, and to which they export new capitals — instruments of domination — arms and all kinds of articles; thus submerging us in an absolute dependence.”— Che Guevara, Message to the Tricontinental, 1967

Stop—‘Rockets-red-glare-or-bomb-bursts-in-air’…Rubble crawls are not familiar fare…Homes built should never-ever-be destroyed—Life builds—Always builds. Hồ Chí Minh -[ho̞˧˩ t͡ɕi˧˥ mɪŋ˧]–His name a synonym for the ‘Bringer of Light’…Born Nguyễn Sinh Côn—and wishing his country free of the—Imperial tyranny of France—while in an idealistic—dream— sent letters to Woodrow Wilson and Harry Truman (presidents of another Imperialistic Nation—called the world’s greatest Democracy’—to champion Vietnam’s struggle for independence from France—He received no answers…

Hilltop high—we arrive twice—to plant flowers and remember—sometimes with our voice. Tree lined field already picked and plowed of life…Inside woods—look down to cattle and fences and trees and fields—a creek now dry—except for trickles of water caught by pools—a deposit of rain cover along this hill and into valley—just last evening. Had we met on planets not keep-steep in folly-farce—and—hurried as our meeting—we could have—or just maybe—penetrated our uncertainties and our greed…We do not meet—we silence peace—we sail on to another land beneath another sky. ‘Rocket’s red glare and bombs bursting in air’—wiz-bangs everywhere and certainly never-peace-everywhere—ever—good-enough-to-matter-to-the-matter—anywhere and We Cry

“The two most important days of your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why”…Mark Twain (Samuel L. Clemens).

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Matrix Storm’—by The Brothers

 

Sparks of Starship Angels…

I_151“Over Bridges of Sighs
To rest my eyes in shades of green
Under Dreaming Spires
To Itchycoo Park, that’s where I’ve been

What did you do there? – I got high
What did you feel there? – Well I cried
But why the tears there? – I’ll tell you why – yyyyy
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful

I feel inclined to blow my mind
Get hung up, feed the ducks with a bun
They all come out to groove about
Be nice and have fun in the sun

I’ll tell you what I’ll do – What will you do?
I’d like to go there now with you
You can miss out school – Won’t that be cool
Why go to learn the words of fools?

What will we do there? – We’ll get high
What will we touch there? – We’ll touch the sky
But why the tears there? I’ll tell you why
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful

I feel inclined to blow my mind
Get hung up, feed the ducks with a bun
They all come out to groove about
Be nice and have fun in the sun
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful”’Itchycoo Park’—written by Steve Marriott and Ronnie Lane…

Fred Hoyle—the astronomer—once said; “that the act of assembling the simplest living organism from simple molecular ingredients was as unlikely as a tornado whipping through a junkyard and assembling a jumbo jet. Yet somehow it happened. Was it blind luck? And if it somehow happened here, could it happen somewhere else?”

Stephen Crane wrote…’A man said to the universe:’ “Sir I exist” “However,” replied the universe, “The fact has not created in me a sense of obligation.”

The prodigious size and the age of a universe is eternal-speak…Rage and range and contractual—contracts—of contractions—expansions—as endless as day-night and mind-time—rewind—refine—and that sense of rhythm or rhyme…Planets and Stars and Nebulae and Space are creations of countless moments of being—ceasing and again being—for minutes of seconds—or the ever—being of forever hours in times’—mind. Special is this contract—of life’s contractions—expansions—of being—of ending—and of Life’s—purposed—Life’s—meaning or—Lives of just—Living…Now and then—won’t that be cool?

Angels fly in starship to scout where next to stop-land-wait-end-and begin again-begin. In star-ships the folds of space shortens the distance between star-light and star-bright and the day of night. In starship—galaxy edge and galaxy center matters only to the standing one at waters’ edge on planet-fall. Small is a matter of size and nothing less than sky-lights and heaven’s length. We dance Universe…you and I—hand-to-hand-shoulder-touched-lips-to-eyes and never tears. Eternal Spirits cannot cry and never Universes’ end and we—Spirit—and—Spirits never die. Robot once—then again and again and… Now and then—won’t that be cool?

But Love! Is the spirit of heart and soul—does not require name or title or reason or permission or through the grace of… No! Things called government nor religious-named or senate or congress or court or king or country has right or reason to legislate or forbid the strength of Love between anyone…And! Stop the builders of weapons! Too late? For—sword grow as shield grows—as bomb-to-drone-to—the shrieks of madness—drown-too—silence the gentle swish and swoon of love and touch and care and taste and the sweetness of dove’s morning cry and the living sound of baby cries and gurgles and… Now or then—won’t that be cool?

Plague—begins and ends as folks—end and begin…Robot death or death of substrate or the walkers that carry—Eternal Spirits at—Spirit—pass—a world or ten or a thousand places ‘cross— birthing—universes. Warmed—to the form of you and me—the us and them of this—here and this—now. And! Time is damned—except by those tellers—of time and those singers of timed songs. When futures’ laugh…Moments—span the days of—does not matter minutes and dances twirling into relief… Now or then—won’t that be cool?

Instead—let us again—dance across these universe—as we wish to dance. We—you and I—and spirit-dance—when the flesh of non-interchangeability sheds substances and gains sustenance. Life spark-sparkles forever–then lends light to darkness—knowing this—is good—is sweet. Now or then—won’t that be cool?

“Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us something new
Open mind for a different view
And nothing else matters…” from ‘Nothing Else Matters’ by James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich, and Kirk Hammett of Metallica.

We are Children of the same Verses of these Universes—We have the Right-to-be-Everywhere… Now and then—won’t that be cool?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Itchycoo Park’-–performed by The Small Faces

Star-Gate Jesus…

N_66The Bull of Bendylaw

“The black bull bellowed before the sea.
The sea, till that day orderly,
Hove up against Bendylaw.

The queen in the mulberry arbor stared
Stiff as a queen on a playing card.
The king fingered his beard.

A blue sea, four horny bull-feet,
A bull-snouted sea that wouldn’t stay put,
Bucked at the garden gate.

Along box-lined walks in the florid sun
Toward the rowdy bellow and back again
The lords and ladies ran.

The great bronze gate began to crack,
The sea broke in at every crack,
Pellmell, blueblack.

The bull surged up, the bull surged down,
Not to be stayed by a daisy chain
Nor by any learned man.

O the king’s tidy acre is under the sea,
And the royal rose in the bull’s belly,
And the bull on the king’s highway…” by Sylvia Plath

Saturn’s spin and around that swirl—twirls a large third and the seventeenth moon ‘Earth-side’ calls “Iapetus.” A Titan of Greek-Speak and Uranus’s Son—and father of Prometheus—survivor or—an ancestor of the Race of Humanity—once Mothered by one—and Fathered by—you pick this one. The shine of Moon—Iapetus—is also one-third circled—by a rim of twelve high miles— from surface and into sky…Hesiod once described a threshold of bronze—night of dark cloud wrap—‘where Night and Day draw near and greet one another as they pass the great threshold of bronze and there the Children of Dark have their dwellings.’ On New Year’s Eve—as the year of 2005 waited for a blessed replacement—NASA’s Cassini spacecraft—photographed an—eight hundred and eight mile long by twelve mile high rim on Iapetus—and Hesiod—smiles.

Twilight and Dawn departure and gates to swirl through—go-to-spaces—between places—both here or there or again back to another here—to fear—to find—to die or to live again—in places without time-signs in parts—or sums to hold again…Ecliptic twirl and galaxy cross—spaces when composite—forms appear-to-disappear—Serpent speak and Eagle reach—Ophiuchus—holder—or bold—once again— Quetzalcoatl boys and fair Gaia girls—wander star-gates through—and touch-find—found reaches—useless rhythms and trouble—times. Or— Ophiuchus high— stands above sun—rises—feet crossed—Galactic wider and planetary—substance filled from brim-to-rim and back-again…

Star-Gate Jesus—dates to twirl and galactic whirl—shapes-to-shift and age-to-bend—zygote-to-grave and back-again…And! Always Spirits—find this time—the twine-rewind—to rock—to roll—to touch—to love—and give up—gained-remained—differently renewed or altered—remained and be again the same or once and twice and—other…Saviors’ seek and ashes heap—wars of thought—too bloodied—fought—still write-righted—incorrect—then reject and still—the will of few ‘gainst wills of blood-spills and always—just because—the walls of Star-Gates—fold and begins another—one-to-come-to-go and arrive—again.

Matters not—what gate we fall through—matters not—what star burns us…Matters—that gates open—matters—that stars are hot…

 And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Mummers’ Dance’…by Loreena McKennitt

Circus States of Stasis…

S_44“Love came to my door
With a sleeping roll
And a madman’s soul
He thought for sure I’d seen him
Dancing up a river in the dark
Looking for a woman
To court and spark

He was playing on the sidewalk
For passing change
When something strange happened
Glory train passed through him
So he buried the coins he made
In People’s Park
And went looking for a woman
To court and spark

It seemed like he read my mind
He saw me mistrusting him
And still acting kind
He saw how I worried sometimes
I worry sometimes

“All the guilty people,” he said
They’ve all seen the stain-
On their daily bread
On their christian names
I cleared myself
I sacrificed my blues
And you could complete me
I’d complete you

His eyes were the color of the sand
And the sea
And the more he talked to me
The more he reached me
But I couldn’t let go of L.A.
City of the fallen angels”…’Court and Spark’ written by Joni Mitchell

How sweet word sounds—worlds—as every utterance touches rhyme and rhythm speak—unlike—gathered watches of waiting and watching—a sky-speak of whispers—into the air of night—another spot of raindrop flight—landing ‘gainst—warming sands and salty seas…Riches flow about the words of sound—tongues known and tasted—treasured—accepted and often heard in other spaces-places seen—felled or yelled against gloom—gathers where sunlight is wishing—spaces scattered among stars of reaches—stretches across skies of night and spaces between word sound—and light. Trilingual editions both same or exiled—silence long and the knowing word—of these places—away from the sounds—of her and the notions of—her quietude. Sand and Leaves—together speak—rustle—whisper—murmur and moan of death—not found—of life—not known. And! Still—now notions of her away sounds and her quietude. Feathers and Leaves and Sand and Ashes and Seas—silence see—and thunder be—peels across sky and rolls onto shoreline—and skylines—and time.

Touch now…And! Feel the intimacy of rhythm or rhyme as touch–speak hides deep— inside—the formality of syntax creep and syntax crawl—where ear-here—hears echoes buried—an idiom—not conveyed by any dictionary’s spaces between word-speak and why…The share of poet-touch and story-spin—of exile’s faith—of disaster’s private pain—as speech native—fails—creative spirit—often maims—creature-speak and often confuses the never-place-of-everywhere.

Word—whirl and shoulder-speak—between things and folks—now world twirled and swirled—communicated—debated and always—translated…Why? When silence of touch—the space of race—cross the beast—of peace—and whispers of dare—chance the softest face to love—gain—lost and gained again. Word whirl…The masters-of-idiomatic usage-of-etymological-implications-of-an untranslatable language-discovered-said-remembered-to-be-forgotten-translated and written another way at another day-in-time. Samuel Beckett’s—‘Waiting for Godot’, ‘Endgame’, ‘Molloy’, ‘Malone Dies’, ‘The Unnamable’ and ‘Tetes Mortes’—first in French…Were then translated by the writer…Did Beckett first thrill-to-the-spill—the conception of these writings in English?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Court and Spark’…by Joni Mitchell

Joni Mitchell – Court and Spark